MARTA-dreaming

Gwinnett, which approved MARTA in theory but refused to pay for it back in the 1970s, may get another chance. As a new convert to the Gwinnett concept, forgive me for getting excited about this! Article in today's AJC here.

Other asides:
On the train home tonight, a large group of mostly bleached blondes discussed how much their kids love riding MARTA (they like to bounce, said one.) I thought the ringleader was going to etch the window glass with her enormous rock.

Which brings me to another observation. When did it become practically obligatory to give a girl a diamond if you wanted her to make you coffee (or vice-versa, in my particular case) for the next several decades? There's a definite generation gap. With mine and the thiry-somethings I know, they all sport shiny left ring fingers, and the hand-talkers pose a definite risk to their conversation partners.

Now that I've (somewhat ambivalently regarding the ring, full-heartedly as far as what it represents) joined this club (with a conflict-free ring, way to go Slim!), I've taken to noticing other womens' entries. Because make no mistake, it is a contest. The way my gal pal grabbed my hand and clutched it to her chest the first time she saw it (her own is more overwhelming) said it all. It's like those decoder rings that came in cereal boxes when we were kids -- they are keys to hidden, mysterious worlds, and it didn't matter how much granola you have to eat to get one, it's all about the ring. For some people anyway.

For the Colombian women I knew, especially displaced Colombian women, the ring was more of a barrier wrapped up in an access code. It was the key to a club they did not belong to. These women had lost everything, often including their husbands. Yet somehow they were still able to listen to my happy shiny story and smile. Maybe that's what every bit of metal and stone wrapped around the fourth finger says: ask me how it happened, and I'll glow.

Reason # 2 why I'm ring-obsessed: this week I'm picking up vestiges of a much sadder story, to be sold on ebay. I wonder who would buy a failed attempt at happily ever after? ... Maybe someone who knows that the attempt to lasso some kind of forever happy is capable of dissolvin in a moment, only to solidify once more with a look. And that behind every look, each touch, all the stray words and silent deeds is the choice to love and be loved.